Lauca
Lauca
en verano
wiry fuzzy young llamas and vicuñas
kick their long camel-colored limbs
across the altiplano
like paper dolls with brass brad joints
their more sedate mothers stand by
all four feet gathered to a point
as if balancing on a ball
slanty-eyed supple viscachas huddle together
under peach-colored rocks out of the rain
then sprint straight up a slope
to their next natural lookout
everything goes green
and around each verdant life
there’s an even more brilliant
rough ring of moss
maybe made by fairies dancing
or, then again, maybe just a peculiar habit of its growth
which studs the hills and plains with living magic –
food for all the fuzzies
breathless, Termas de Jurasi
breathless, Termas de Jurasi
watching how the raindrops
bounce back into the air
carrying more water with each one
how the resulting rings
spread and interfere
it takes my breath away
or maybe it’s that
we are immersed in hot springs
watching clouds rise
out of the fiery earth
or that we are up so high
all well and sparkling
even when the world is slowing down
for all those reasons
and a lifetime more
I take deep quick breaths
gazing at these three beloved faces
each one lengthening toward age
held by warm water
not worrying about what’s next
La Cariñosa
La Cariñosa
una persona muy cariñosa
wraps you into their warm presence
¡No te preoccupes! they say
waving away your apologies and shortcomings
pulling out the chair
when you shift from foot to foot
pouring the water for tea
while you search for a word of explanation
they read your face with a concerned smile
patting the azure pillow behind you
straightening the dahlia on the table
thinking quietly about
what you might need next
settling on a way that later
you’ll both be able to laugh about it all
and you know
when you cross that threshold next
you will feel the wound of a cut cord
the unspoken lack of their tenderness
like turning away from a crackling fire
and walking out into the night
volcán
volcán
crowned by a
misleading white mop of icy
bangs lulling you into thinking its heart
has long gone cold and the fiery veins slipped into senescence
but you can’t blot out its sleek steep black cindered sides perfectly sloped
with that extra-regular cone no other peaks take, like the first time I watched
a grey whale spout – exactly the same simple shape as a kindergartener’s drawing
for years (generations) it towers there
quietly, a presence to greet as you go about life
until one day
it can’t go on living this lie
the tension’s unbearable
rivulets of sweat stain its snow
it shakes with the knowledge of what it is
and what it will do
and then people will say
without warning –
a testament to how little attention they’ve paid
and how volcanoes talk
